


All the Right Bits and Bobs

by fuzipenguin



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Crack, M/M, Multi, Other, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: Cybertronians lose their interface equipment after a certain age. Everyone knows this. Right?





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Props go to tumblr users Anonymous asked for G1 Optimus Prime and Prowl and secret relationship discovered by rest of the bots and also ephdraws who needed to know what happened with Ratchet. After that, things just spiraled out of control on their own.

     “-streak. Bluestreak! What’s wrong?” 

     Bluestreak blinked, Hound’s concerned face coming into focus. Over the tracker’s shoulder, several more mechs peered at them both and Bluestreak realized he had come to a dazed stop just inside the door to the rec room. 

     “Wha…?”

     “You look like someone just gutted ya, mech. What happened?” Sideswipe asked in concern, coming up and laying a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder. 

     Bluestreak whimpered and wordlessly pointed behind him, processor unable to produce the words to explain. 

     “Did a ‘con get in?” Sunstreaker asked, coming up behind his twin and peering down the hallway leading away from the recroom. Both frontliners tensed, hands twitching at the idea. 

     Wildly shaking his head, Bluestreak waved his hands through the air as if trying to wipe away the thought. 

     “Well, then what?” Bumblebee asked, sidling up to Bluestreak’s other side. “Is someone hurt?”

     “… Optimus,” Bluestreak finally managed. 

     The gathered group of mechs collectively gasped. “Where is he? Should we call Ratchet?” Hound asked, wringing his hands together.  

     “Nnnn… no… Ppp… Ppprowl!” Bluestreak stuttered, getting a little frustrated with his own mouth. Why was he having such trouble speaking; normally he excelled at not shutting up. Sunstreaker told him so on a daily basis.

     “Prowl? We should call Prowl?”

     “Well, that kinda makes sense, Prowl’s second in charge, so…”

     “But wait, is Prowl hurt too?”

     “No!” Bluestreak finally shouted. “Prowl was in Optimus’ lap, and they were kkk-kissing!!”

     A stunned silence descended upon the crowd, which now appeared to be upwards of a dozen mechs. 

     “…kissing?” Hound finally repeated. One of his hands rose up to cover his mouth as if the word was something obscene. 

     “Prowl and Optimus?” Sunstreaker said incredulously. “Optimus… and  _Prowl_?”

     “But… they’re so… _old_. I thought they didn’t have interface drives anymore,” Sideswipe whispered, his expression turning horrified. 

     “You think… maybe we should tell Ratchet anyway?” Bumblebee asked, looking just as upset.

     Everyone looked at their nearest neighbor before they all turned and gazed at Bluestreak. Who took a step back, his sensory panels rising in alarm. Why were they all looking at him?!

     “Go,” Sideswipe said, using his grip to spin Bluestreak around and push him towards the hallway. 

     “We’ll be right behind you,” Sunstreaker added. 

     And Bluestreak was propelled down the hallway and towards Medical by a dozen or so Cybertronians all muttering to themselves about interfacing and the fall of civilization. 

\--

     Two mechs stayed behind.

     Ironhide gazed after the gaggle of soldiers, orbital ridges risen so high it felt like any minute they were going to fall off his face. His processor hurt and he wanted answers, but the other mech keeping him company was no help.

     Jazz laid sprawled across Ironhide’s lap where he had fallen over from a fit of hilarity. He was laughing so hard, no sounds were emerging from his convulsing frame other than the occasional squeak.

     “Do you think maybe we should warn Ratch? Or Pit, Prowl and Prime?” Ironhide finally asked. 

     Jazz’s vents started hiccoughing and he desperately grasped at Ironhide’s arms. “Frag, no!” he gasped out before dissolving into another bout of giggles.


	2. Oh, Really?

     Ahhh… this was the good life. Not another mecha in sight, no one injured or dying, just the quiet echo of his pede steps and the scritch of his stylus across his inventory pad. Ratchet could get used to this. 

     And he did, for all of ten minutes. Then a veritable flood of mechanisms came bursting through the double doors in a cacophony of shouting and bright colors. 

     Ratchet jumped about ten feet into the air, but he would absolutely deny it when questioned about it in the future. 

     He stared at the crowd, blinking at them for several seconds. When it appeared as they were going to continue to mill around and take up space within his once peaceful domain, he slammed his data pad down on the nearest flat surface and shouted at the top of his admittedly impressive volume. 

     “What in the ever loving Pit is going on?!”

     A hush fell over the room, broken moments later when several pairs of hands propelled a single mech out of the safety of the group. Bluestreak quivered all over as he hunched in upon himself in front of Ratchet. 

     “Hh… hi, Ratchet,” Bluestreak whimpered, his sensory panels tucked low down his back like a beaten turbopuppy’s audials. 

     “Hello, Bluestreak,” Ratchet replied quietly, because raising his voice at the twitchy sniper never accomplished anything. “How can I help you?”

     “Damn. Is that how he always greets you? I think we’re getting short-changed, Sunny,” Sideswipe’s distinctive voice piped up from within the crowd.

     “Don’t call the that!” 

     Ratchet glared at the yellow and red frames standing behind Bluestreak. They inched backwards, trying to hide themselves behind their fellows, but their height and bright paintjobs made them stand out.  

     “Um… we… we just wanted to tell you…?” Bluestreak began hesitantly. 

     Ratchet turned his gaze from the twins and he smiled encouragingly at Bluestreak, gesturing him to go on. 

     “Yes, Blue. Tell me what?”

     “Uh… well… I saw… um…. Prowl and Optimus. Together, sir,” he said, and flinched backwards. 

     “Together…?” Ratchet frowned in confusion and Bluestreak looked as if he were about to faint. Luckily, one of his supporters ever so helpfully stepped in to offer assistance. 

     “He said he saw them… kissing,” Hound said in a loud whisper before ducking back behind Trailbreaker’s larger frame. 

     Ratchet rebooted his audials. Then his visual feed. Nope. Still the same group of idiots. 

     “Bluestreak saw Optimus and Prowl kissing,” Ratchet repeated flatly, just to make sure he had heard correctly. 

     Bluestreak shivered and ‘mmhm’d’ miserably, while the rest of the group nodded in unison. Impressive, actually. 

     “All right, children, gather ‘round,” Ratchet announced, waving them forward, with a shake of his head. “I think it’s time you all had the interfacing talk. You see when two mecha like each other…”

     “Eh!” Sunstreaker called out. “You don’t have to tell us how interfacing works!” He and his twin elbowed each other with matching leers on their faces and several of their fellows chuckled appreciatively. 

     “Yeah, well, apparently I do, if all of you glitches can’t realize what is going on with Prowl and Optimus,” Ratchet retorted. And really, considering those two, Ratchet was a little surprised the rest of the crew hadn’t found out earlier. Like Earth bunnies, the two of them. 

     “But… how can they? I mean… they don’t even have the… you know…parts,” Bluestreak mumbled in mortification as he made several gestures with his hands. And Bluestreak was spending far too much time with certain troublemakers if he knew what those hand motions meant. 

     “An array?” Ratchet asked in disbelief. “You think they don’t have an array!?”

     “Any mecha over five millenia has their array taken out…. don’t they?” Trailbreaker tentatively asked. 

     “What?!” Ratchet shouted, causing Bluestreak to stumble backwards. The twins caught him, giving Ratchet identical glares as the sniper cowered against them. And Ratchet felt badly about that, but really!? Where had he heard that bit of bad code?

     “That’s ridiculous! Who told you that?”

     Everyone looked at one another, expressions of confusion spreading. 

     “Um… Jazz?” Bumblebee offered. 

     Ratchet stared at the small scout in frank disbelief. “You. You, who have worked with Jazz for centuries… you actually believed him when he said that?”

     Bumblebee bit his lower lip, looking sheepish. “Well… he seemed so certain when he told Blue…”

     Ratchet paused a moment, drawing in an ex-vent to calm himself before speaking. 

     It didn’t work. 

     He whirled, picked up the data pad he had been working with earlier, and threw it into the center of the cadre of idiots, scattering them like crows. Then he started grabbing whatever tools he could find and started chucking them too. “Get out! OUT! All of you! Morons! Glitched rejects from the Pits wasting my time!!!”

     Ratchet was very careful to make sure not to hit Bluestreak, which was actually pretty difficult considering how much everyone was flailing around. But he managed and in short order, the Medical Bay doors were swinging to a close behind the last of the miscreants. 

     Well. All but two of them. 

     “What do you want?” Ratched demanded, glaring from one twin to the other. They had scattered with the rest of their peers, Sideswipe going left and Sunstreaker right, but not actually leaving the Bay. Now they approached him from opposite ends of the room, moving forward with slow and steady steps. Almost like they were… 

     “We just had one more question for you,” Sunstreaker said, the scuffs on his chestplate proof of his fight against the crowd. 

     “You’re over five millenia. Waaaay over,” Sideswipe commented. “Do _you_  have an interface drive?”

     “Of course I do!” Ratchet snapped, happy to see the dent on Sideswipe’s shoulder that proved Ratchet’s aim had been true. “I do, Prowl does, every single mechanism on this ship, Pit, this planet does!”

     Sideswipe and Sunstreaker continued to stalk forward. Yes. Stalk. That’s what their motions reminded Ratchet of. Those TV documentaries about African lions hunting their prey. Optics intent and gaze unwavering. 

     Ratchet felt the first hint of unease trickle down his backstrut. Damn. Why had he thrown all his tools?

     “Good to know,” Sunstreaker replied, his lips curving upwards. And now they were only feet apart, the twins approaching slowly as if afraid to scare Ratchet off. As if. A pair of frontliners didn’t frighten Ratchet. 

     “Mm. I’m not sure,” Sideswipe interjected. “I don’t know if I believe you, Ratchet. I think you should show us.”

     “Show you what?” Ratchet blustered. They really didn’t mean what they were suggesting, did they?

     Sideswipe’s grin showed just a hint of denta. They finally stopped their forward progression, well within an arm’s length of Ratchet. For some reason, he was frozen in place, optics darting from one twin’s face to another. 

     “ _Everything_ ,” Sideswipe purred, gaze traveling down the length of Ratchet’s body and locking in on his pelvis. 


	3. Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

     “You lied to me!” 

     Jazz looked up from his drink to see Bluestreak storming back into the recroom. He and his compatriots hadn’t been gone long; Ratchet had probably set them all straight within short order. Pity that.

     Especially since Bluestreak looked furious. Jazz didn’t even know the gunner could experience fury. But his optics were a-blazing and his sensory panels were a-quivering, all signs that he was well and truly angry. He was also the hottest thing Jazz had ever seen since he had opened his optics and spied the Earth’s sun for the first time. 

     “Uh oh,” Ironhide murmured, pushing off from his chair. “This is what ya get. See ya later, Jazz.”

     “Coward,” Jazz muttered back, leaning against his chair and giving Bluestreak a little wave. 

     “What was that, Baby Blue?” Jazz asked, raising his voice as Bluestreak neatly sidestepped Ironhide and came to a stop in front of the table, fingers clenched into fists at his sides. 

     “You lied! You said mechs of a certain age didn’t have interface drives!” Bluestreak exclaimed, practically trembling with emotion.  

     Jazz rolled around his mouthful or energon before swallowing it. He carefully placed the now empty cube onto the table and nodded thoughtfully. “I did say that.”

     “Why?!” 

     Jazz considered the other mech in front of him. Courageous, beautiful, naive, and just about the kindest spark Jazz had ever met… and way too good for someone like Jazz. Despite how much he _wanted_. 

     “Baby Blue…” Jazz began, feeling the grin fall. “I just… I know what you wanted, mech, and I just didn’t want to see you end up hurt…”

     “Fuck you,” Bluestreak growled, throwing an arm forward and pointing at Jazz. 

     Who just about fell off his chair in shock. Okay… maybe Jazz would cross off ‘naive’ from that list… 

     “It was just an invitation for a frag, Jazz. I’m not a sparkling, you know!” Bluestreak exclaimed throwing his hands up in the air. 

     “I wouldn’t let you hurt me. You don’t know everything about me. Maybe I’m the one that likes to do the hurting!” Bluestreak retorted, optics flashing in a way which made Jazz’s spark throb. “You don’t know! And now you’re never going to know!” 

     With a majestic twirl of his doorwings, Bluestreak turned on his heel and flounced back out of the recroom. 

     As the echoes from the sniper’s voice finally faded away, Jazz blinked several times at the empty doorway. Then he scrambled up, tripping on his own chair and falling to his knees before he made it back to his feet. 

     “Blue! Bluestreak, wait up!” Jazz called, running after the other mech. 


	4. Sparkfelt Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hints of BDSM and dom/sub this chapter

     “Seriously?!”

     Jazz gave Bluestreak a sheepish smile and leaned forward around the edge of the bookshelf. He’d gotten distracted checking out the titles in the sniper’s collection and hadn’t made it out in time before Bluestreak had returned. He had hoped to slip out unnoticed behind Bluestreak but the other mech had taken two steps into the room, twitched his doorwings, and turned to face Jazz directly. 

     None of the Praxians had ever shown a talent for pinpointing his presence before so Jazz could only assume Bluestreak had rerouted something in his panels to identify Jazz directly. He felt a little smug about that. Apparently he was being just annoying enough to really get Blue’s attention. 

     “This is bordering on harassment,” Bluestreak stated, crossing his arms over his chest and emphasizing that delicious bumper of his. “I can’t believe you broke into my quarters!”

     “I wouldn’t call it harassment. More like… protection. I was checking out some of the vents and I heard a noise. I had to make sure nothing bad was in here,” Jazz explained, widening his optics behind his visor. He also spread out his fingers, palms up, in a show of innocence. 

     “Lie,” Bluestreak retorted, the expression on his face crumpling a little. Jazz took a step forward, automatically reaching out to the other mech to comfort him. But he was stopped by the palm impacting his own bumper. 

     “You always lie to me,” Bluestreak said softly, optics downcast.

     Jazz squirmed a little, rubbing the back of his helm with one hand. “I… I don’t mean to.” 

     “But you do anyway. That hurts me, Jazz. You don’t want to hurt me, do you?”

     “No!” Jazz protested. No, he definitely didn’t want to do that. He had already messed this up once already and he was desperate for a fresh start. Bluestreaker just kept shutting him down before he ever got started.  

     Bluestreak gave him a blinding smile that made Jazz’s spark lurch in his chest. 

     “That’s good. That’s very good to hear. So what I want to hear next is that you’re sorry. Can you do that for me?”

     Bluestreak leaned forward, his sensory panels hiking upwards with a little wiggle, and his optics oh so earnest. And Jazz  _was_  sorry, he truly was. Lying was just sort of a natural instinct sometimes… 

     “I’m sor…”

     “Wait.” Bluestreak held up a hand, his smile fading a bit. “Turn around.”

     Jazz blinked up at Bluestreak, a flicker of unease making his backstruts tingle. “What?”

     Bluestreak motioned with one finger, twirling it in the air. “Turn around,” he repeated. “Face the corner.” 

     Jazz half-turned, glancing into the corner Bluestreak had indicated. “The corner? But why…?”

     A heavy hand descended upon Jazz’s nape, and he froze. “Because you don’t deserve to look at me. Lying. Always lying. You don’t even deserve for me to even touch you, yet here I am, degrading myself in order to help you, Jazz. 

     “I will not repeat myself again. Turn around completely and face the corner.”

     Jazz’s audials were buzzing. How did Bluestreak’s vocalizer change like that? One minute he was a turbopuppy and the next a PitHound, deep and commanding and oh scrap, Jazz was going to do it, wasn’t he?

     Trembling, he shuffled forward until his shoulders brushed the walls of the corner, his frame heaving with harried ventilations. Bluestreak’s hand was like a burning brand on Jazz’s neck, heavy and anchoring. 

     “I’m sor…” Jazz tried again, but the hand squeezed and Jazz fell silent with a whine. His fingers were clenched into too-tight fists, his knuckles protesting the pressure. His optics strained to catch anything in his periphery, but all he could see was the dull orange of the ship’s walls. Then the ugly color darkened and Jazz thought something had happened to the overhead light. But that wasn’t it, was it? Because the shadows were moving. 

     Bluestreak’s sensory panels. Arching up to touch the wall on either side of them and making Jazz feel trapped, pinned in place. 

     He found that he didn’t quite hate it. 

     “No. On your knees. Apologize to me while on your knees in the corner,” Bluestreak whispered, his warm ventilations tickling the back of Jazz’s helm as the other mech leaned in. “Like the bad little boy you are. Aren’t you?”

     Jazz felt light-headed, his spark wound too tight. His interface array throbbed steadily while his armor flushed with heat, then ice, then heat again. 

     He felt like he was balanced on a narrow ledge, trapped by the enemy on all sides and the only way out a fall that was sure to break him apart into a hundred pieces. Was getting free worth that pain?

     Bluestreak’s hand exerted the gentlest of pressures and then Jazz was sinking downwards, head bent forwards. 

     “Yes, sir. I am, sir,” Jazz whispered, flinging out a hand behind him to latch onto Bluestreak’s ankle. The entire room was moving in and out of focus, but Bluestreak was solid. The other mech wasn’t shaking like Jazz was. He was very, very real, and completely unmoving. Until he shifted forward so that more of his foot was within Jazz’s reach. 

     “That’s my boy,” Bluestreak murmured, the words ringing with pride. And Jazz sagged in place, forehelm resting against the wall. 

     Turns out, the way home was always worth the pain. 


	5. Stamina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter in which we start earning our NC17 rating.

               “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fucking Primus,” Sideswipe chanted, holding on to the edge of the table for dear life. “Oh, yes, yes, yes, _yes_!”

                His aft was tilted up, legs spread for balance as Ratchet drove into him over and over. Lubricant ran down his thighs, his plating was flared to dump excess heat, and his optics were tightly shuttered to better focus on the bliss emanating from his valve.

                Sideswipe was having the time of his life. Who knew the old medic would have this much stamina? He and Sunny sure hadn’t and now they were learning exactly just how long Ratchet could keep this up.

                Apparently forever.

                _It’s only been three hours, drama queen,_ Sunstreaker snarked over their bond.

                Sideswipe’s optics slitted open and his gaze searched out and found his brother sprawled out on their berth. If one didn’t know Sunstreaker, they would think he was merely lounging. But Sideswipe knew every bit of his twin’s frame, and every motion that it could make.

                Sunstreaker was exhausted, plain and simple. Of course, he had been the first for Ratchet to get his hands on, despite Sideswipe’s whining.

                That was kinda the nice thing about taking on a single lover. If someone could keep up with them, one could rest while the other got a turn. Except Ratchet seemed to have the energy of a nuclear blast and Sunstreaker didn’t show signs of recovering any time soon.

                And if Ratchet kept going like this, Sideswipe wouldn’t either.

                Ratchet shoved himself deep, practically draping himself over Sideswipe’s back. A broad hand slid over Sideswipe’s hip and down to his interface array. Sadly, those dexterous fingers skipped by his aching spike completely. Sideswipe didn’t have much time to mourn however, as two of those digits perched themselves right on top of Sideswipe’s main anterior node and began to rub furiously.

                Sideswipe froze, every cable and wire in his frame tensing as his impending overload sped up its advance at a frightening pace.

                “Oh… oh, frag, oh… please, yeah,” Sideswipe whispered, his head slowly arching back as the tension built and built.

                “That’s it, come on,” Ratchet murmured into Sideswipe’s audial. “Mmm, _very_ nice. You’re getting so tight around me.” Ratchet withdrew and thrust deep again, emphasizing the tight squeeze Sideswipe’s valve now had on Ratchet’s spike.

                “I want to feel you rippling around me. I want you as snug as you can get,” Ratchet continued to purr and Sideswipe lost the battle.

                Not like he had been truly fighting it.

                Sideswipe choked out a spiraling cry, body shaking as release swept through him. Ratchet made a pleased sound and resumed the motions of his hips, pushing past the spasming valve calipers again and again.

                The table edge beneath Sideswipe’s fingers crumpled and he collapsed to the surface, moaning into the metal. Ratchet’s hand on his hip tightened to the point of stressing the plating and somehow Sideswipe found the energy to tilt his aft up even further.

                “Give it… give it to me,” Sideswipe panted as his frame shook with pleasure. Ratchet’s rhythm was going erratic and he couldn’t be far off from overload. And Sideswipe wanted it. Wanted that hot spill splashing over his deepest sensors. If it was timed just right, he could come again.

                Which Ratchet probably knew, devious medic that he was. A moment later, Ratchet thrust in hard, pushing Sideswipe up on his pedetips. Metal screeched as Ratchet ground his pelvis against Sideswipe’s aft, the armor covering his hip denting from the squeeze of Ratchet’s fingers as he overloaded.

                Sideswipe’s ventilations stalled at the first delicious burst of transfluid against his ceiling node. Another spurt and he was coming again, making a screech as Ratchet’s digits tightened around Sideswipe’s anterior nub and started rubbing again.

                Oh, that hurt. But it was a good hurt, so good, making his knees wobble as they tried to support him.

                “Mmmm…” Ratchet murmured in satisfaction, his hips still pressing against Sideswipe’s aft in little circules as the medic’s spike expelled its load. “That was good, Sides. I love your valve.”

                “One… one of my… best…attributes,” Sideswipe panted, his ex-vents fogging up the surface of the table.

                “This isn’t bad either,” Ratchet commented, hand leaving off Sideswipe’s node and fondling his aft instead. “You have any more left in you?”

                “What? You kidding? I could go all night,” Sideswipe boasted weakly as Ratchet finally withdrew completely. A mix of transfluid and lubricant welled up at the entrance of Sideswipe’s valve and overflowed, adding to the mess already coating his thighs.

                “Uh huh. That’s what they say about you two,” Ratchet said idly. “Stamina. Well, I’m a pretty early model, you see. So I have to take a break every now and then. Why don’t you pay some attention to your brother while I rest? He’s looking a little lonely.”

                Sideswipe shakily rose up, weight resting on his palms, and met Sunstreaker’s tired stare. A zing of despair echoed through their bond although Sideswipe couldn’t quite identify who it started with.

                “Yeah. Lonely. Sure,” Sideswipe replied and made to take a step around the table. He promptly collapsed to his knees.

                “All right there, Sideswipe?” Ratchet inquired, voice smug.

                Sideswipe refused to look at their tormentor. Instead, he leaned forward and began to crawl towards the berth. And if his aft swung back and forth, well…

                … it was one of his best features, right? Maybe it would detract from the sight of him so drained of energy he couldn’t stand.

                Stamina.

                He was starting to gain a new appreciation of the word.

 

~ End 


	6. Touch Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jazz and Bluestreak finally get their NSFW rating. Potentially dub-con; Bluestreak is being vague for a reason, but this leaves Jazz pretty confused.

                Jazz ached.

                His valve seeped lubricant, his spike a constant pressure under his interface cover. Frustrated arousal had been his near constant companion for the past two weeks as Bluestreak had instructed him not to self-service.

                But he hadn’t touched Jazz either.

                And oh, how Jazz wanted to be touched. Even if it was a reprimanding hand to the back of the neck like when Bluestreak had first punished him. But there had been no physical contact between them since then. Instead, Jazz showed up to Blue’s quarters at certain times on certain days and cleaned.

                Yes, Jazz – scourge of the Decepticons, third in command of the Autobot army, and all around fun guy – had been relegated to a cleaning drone.

                On the first night, Jazz dusted off Bluestreak’s datapad shelves and rearranged the titles in alphabetical order. Apparently that didn’t please Bluestreak, because on the second night, Jazz was told to arrange them in date of production. The third night, Bluestreak moved on from his large assortment of ‘pads and had instructed Jazz to clean the sniper’s collections of rifles.

                That had been Jazz’s favorite. Bluestreak’s weapons were important to him and he had stood over Jazz the entire time, carefully watching Jazz as he had methodically stripped, cleaned, and reassembled each piece.

                The fourth night was devoted to sweeping and scrubbing the entirety of the room’s floor. The visit after, Bluestreak had handed him a human-sized toothbrush and imperiously told him to scrub the floor _again_ because it just wasn’t clean enough.

                Jazz was not ashamed to say that on that night, he had bent over with his visor nearly touching the decking. As he focused his attention on not breaking the tiny toothbrush in his hand, he had let his aft sway in explicit invitation.

                One which Bluestreak had not taken him up on.

                And now tonight. Jazz had entered Bluestreak’s room and had immediately been instructed to kneel in the center of the room. No further tasks had been given and after an hour, Jazz was starting to fidget. Normally, Jazz could stay in the same position for days, but Blue was sitting right _there_ on his berth, lounging against a mound of pillows with his sensory panels spread out so delectably. Jazz kept having to swallow down oral lubricant, gaze never leaving the other mech’s form.

                Jazz had absolutely no idea what was going on between him and Bluestreak. Bluestreak had never said and Jazz was honestly too afraid to ask. Each night he vowed that he wouldn’t come back, but then Bluestreak pinged him a date and time and there Jazz was. Five minutes early, knocking on Bluestreak’s door and waiting to be let in.

                He honestly hadn’t minded the cleaning so much. It kept Blue’s focus on him, as he would occasionally add further instructions or correct him. But this. This… waiting. It was driving Jazz a little mad. Bluestreak hadn’t even looked at him once since Jazz had knelt. Was he so engrossed in his data pad that he had forgotten Jazz was here?

                After the second hour, Jazz couldn’t stand it any longer. He cleared the back of his intake and waited for Bluestreak to acknowledge him.

                He didn’t. Nary even a twitch of a doorwing.

                “Um… Blue…?” Jazz ventured.

                _That_ got a reaction.

                Bluestreak’s head shot up, and he glared at Jazz. “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak. Nor did you even use the correct address!”

                And Jazz might have lost his head, just a little. His arms waved around, gesticulating wildly. “The ‘correct address’?! What is _that_ supposed to be? You never told me anything about that and you never actually told me _not_ to talk. What in the Pit am I doing here, Blue, can you tell me that? Because I’m starting to think that none of this is worth it!”

                Bluestreak considered him for a long moment before carefully putting his data pad off to the side. He swiveled his body so that his pedes touched the ground and then stood, doorwings flaring in a stretch.

                “What exactly do you think you are going to get, Jazz?” Bluestreak asked mildly. “If you stay and continue, that is?”

                Jazz blinked at the other mech, suddenly made a little uneasy by… something… in Bluestreak’s posture. He found himself unconsciously hunching his shoulders and forced himself to straighten up.

                “You for starters. But you’ve never once even touched me!”

                One of Bluestreak’s orbital ridges rose and he picked up his datapad, crossing his arms so that it dangled from his lowermost hand. He took three measured steps forward and then stopped in front of Jazz, so close that he could feel the warmth emanating from the sniper’s frame. He wanted to reach out, stroke his fingers along that smooth plating, but something kept him still, that same something that was urging him to apologize, duck his head, and avert his gaze.

                He compromised. He didn’t touch Bluestreak, but he didn’t look away either.

                After a moment, the corner of Bluestreak’s mouth quirked up as if Jazz had amused him. Out of nowhere, Jazz’s valve clenched on nothing and his spark began to beat faster.

               “You want to be touched, is that it?” Bluestreak asked. He uncrossed his arms and used a corner of the datapad under Jazz’s chin to tilt his head back. “Is that all you want?”

               “I…” Jazz trailed off, feeling pinned in place by Bluestreak’s oh so blue optics. “You. You, sir. I want you.”

               “Hmm. I still don’t feel as if you deserve me,” Bluestreak mused.

               “I’ve apologized!” Jazz protested, indignant. “Lots!”

               “You have,” Bluestreak said, nodding.

               “And I’ve cleaned for you! Done whatever you told me to!”

               “Also true,” Bluestreak acknowledged, putting a little more pressure on the datapad. Jazz’s neck was starting to get a crick in it, but he knew to complain wouldn’t earn him any points.

               “So what else do you want me to do?!” Jazz demanded in frustration.

               Bluestreak considered him for several moments, the silence stretching so long that Jazz was half tempted to ask again. Maybe there was some cue he was supposed to have seen? Heard?

               Being with Bluestreak was like Jazz had been blinded and deafened and asked to get through a room full of trip wires and land mines with no help of external sensors.

               Jazz loved those type of challenges. Maybe that’s why he was still here.

              The sniper abruptly took a step back and sank to one knee in front of Jazz. The datapad disappeared into subspace, and Jazz let his head move back down into a more normal position as they stared at one another.

              “You will call me ‘sir’. You do not speak unless to reply to a question,” Bluestreak stated. “Do you understand?”

              Jazz’s mouth gaped a little, feeling as if he was still in that maze of a room but suddenly given his sight back. “Uh… yes, sir,” he replied, stammering a little.

              “Very good,” Bluestreak murmured with a nod. Jazz’s entire frame flushed at the praise, and he cringed when he heard the tell-tale clink of his spike knocking up against its cover.

              Bluestreak’s gaze dropped to stare at Jazz’s pelvis, and Jazz had to fight not to cover his groin like a shy youngling. The sniper’s expression didn’t change however, and his stare rose back up to Jazz’s face.

              “You _will_ be touched. Paddled, to be exact. You will position yourself on your hands and knees when I tell you to. You will take twenty-five hits to the rear end without complaint, although any other sounds are permitted. You will be allowed to overload if you feel the need to do so, but not by your own hand. If at any time you can no longer handle the treatment, you will speak the safeword ‘daisy’ to me, and I will immediately stop. Do you have any questions?”

              Only a hundred. But Jazz didn’t want Bluestreak to walk away and ignore him again. So he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

              Out of nowhere, Bluestreak’s hand whipped up and slapped Jazz across the face. Jazz rocked back onto his heels, cheek stinging, and blinked at Bluestreak in astonishment.

              “Twenty-six hits now. If you cannot speak to me in proper address, I will have to ask you to leave,” Bluestreak said, face and tone impassive. “Do you have any questions?”

              “… no, sir,” Jazz whispered, frame beginning to tremble. Damn, but his face _stung_.

              “Excellent,” Bluestreak announced, pushing himself to his feet and walking over to his desk. “Please get into position now.”

              Jazz slowly moved, planting his palms onto the floor and distributing his weight evenly between his hands and knees. He was starting to have serious doubts about this whole scenario. But at least Bluestreak would finally be paying attention to him, right?

              Jazz listened to the sound of Bluestreak rummaging in his desk and then the squeak of wheels as he pulled his chair over. Bluestreak settled into it by Jazz’s side, the chair creaking a bit.

             Something hard and unyielding was placed against Jazz’s aft, and he automatically tensed. How hard would Bluestreak hit him? The slap across the face had been surprisingly forceful.

             “What is your safe word, Jazz?” Bluestreak asked quietly.

             Jazz searched his memory banks. “Daisy. Sir.”

            “Very good. Be sure to remember it,” Bluestreak said and lifted the paddle away only to swing it against Jazz’s aft.

            “Primus!” Jazz gasped as soon as the sensation registered across his haptic net. Ok, so Bluestreak was going to hit him pretty hard. Well, Jazz could take that. He’d taken much worse before.

            Another blow landed, and then another, and then five more. They were all in exactly the same spot, but they didn’t all hit with the same intensity. Some were bare taps, others forceful blows that rocked Jazz forward on his knees. Those jarring ones had him gritting his denta, especially as the repeat hits quickly stripped the dermal protection from his plating.

            After the fifteenth blow, Jazz started to wonder if he’d be able to hold out until the twenty sixth. He was no stranger to torture, but that was involuntary. He wasn’t tied down here. He could get up and walk away at any point. It was a fight to keep still and just… _take_ it.

            “I bet your aft is so hot right now,” Bluestreak commented idly, lightly tracing the paddle across Jazz’s aft and down the back of his thighs. “Does it hurt?”

            “… yes. Yes, sir,” Jazz managed, his processor swimming. He realized his entire frame was shaking and condensation dripped off it onto the floor. His interface array was still charged, his valve aching in emptiness. Another sudden blow made it clench down on nothing, and he moaned piteously.

            “Are you enjoying this?” Bluestreak asked, lightly popping him with the paddle.

            “I… I…” Jazz trailed off, uncertain how to answer.

            Something hard nudged up between his thighs, and Jazz automatically spread them. Head hanging, he opened his optics and saw the handle of the paddle just barely poking out from between his legs. It pressed upwards, Jazz reflexively grinding down atop it.

            “Do you enjoy pain, Jazz?” Bluestreak inquired.

            “No. No, sir. Not like this,” Jazz replied truthfully. The sting of handcuffs abrading his wrists, the agonizing bliss of overload denial… that was more his level of pain.

            “Yet you’re leaking,” Bluestreak pointed out. The paddle tapped Jazz’s valve cover, and he struggled to keep it in place.

            “You, sir. You’re here. With me. Focused on me,” Jazz bit out in short sentences. His processor didn’t seem quite up to longer ones.

            “Hmmm. I see. So that outweighs the pain.”

            The handle was withdrawn and a heavy blow, the most forceful yet, landed against Jazz’s aft. He cried out, elbows nearly buckling.

 _Primus_ , but that hurt. He hadn’t known that there were that many sensors in his aft!

            The paddle hit him again, somehow even harder than before. This time, his elbows _did_ give out and he fell forward, nearly faceplating into the decking.

            “Get back into position,” Bluestreak instructed after a moment, his voice cold.

            “Please, sir,” Jazz mumbled, his mouth smushed against the floor. “Please…”

            “Up. Up! Do you want me or not?”

            Jazz shakily pushed himself back up onto his palms, his plating clamped down tight. Several warnings popped up in his HUD; his internal temperature was too high. But he couldn’t force himself to flare his armor to relieve some of the heat. His substructures in his lower back and upper legs already felt raw and abraded and they hadn’t even been hit. They needed all the protection they could get.

           A light tap proceeded another jarring hit. Then two more in quick succession. Jazz had no idea what the count was now, his body too focused on the agony. At this rate, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk out of here.

           “Six more, Jazz,” Bluestreak helpfully supplied. “Your safe word is ‘daisy’. You can use it at any time. This will only get worse.”

            Six more. Oh, Primus.

            But Jazz shook his head mutely, bracing himself.

           And well he did. Bluestreak stood from his chair, and Jazz moaned again in anticipation.

           Endure. He just had to endure. He always made it through the torture. This was just another journey.

           To what, he wasn’t sure any more. He just knew he had to stay put for now.

            A blow landed. Another. Below Jazz’s head, energon started to collect in a small puddle. He realized he had sunk his denta deep into his lower lip, making it bleed. The hurt there was nothing in comparison to his aft.

            Was his aft bleeding too?

            “Twenty-two. Four more to go,” Bluestreak announced. “Is there something you want to say to me?”

            Jazz whimpered, rubbing his face on his shoulder. “Nnn… no, sir.”

            “Very well.”

           The twenty-third hit nearly made Jazz scream. His aft felt like molten fire was being poured over it. Yet his spike was still half pressurized, his valve seeping lubricant around the edges of its cover.

           Twenty four was so light, Jazz barely felt it and he cringed. It couldn’t be that easy for the rest. Dreadful anticipation made him tense.

           “Two more,” Bluestreak said softly, and Jazz nodded. His vents hiccupped in distress, and he dimly realized that he was whining continuously.

           The next blow made Jazz crumple to his side, his hands curled into fists. Survival protocols that he had previously suppressed clamored at him, giving him several different options to kill the mech behind him and end this pain.

           But he pushed them back. It was _Bluestreak_ behind him, not an interrogator. And Jazz had agreed to this. So he struggled to get upright once more, biting his lip even harder at the sharp flares of agony radiating as far down as his pedes.

           “One more. Assume your position,” Bluestreak said. He made no move to help Jazz, but instead waited patiently until Jazz was back onto his hands and knees. The clattering of his plating was loud in the otherwise quiet room, interspersed with his panting and whimpers.

           “One more,” Bluestreak repeated. “Brace yourself, pet.”

           Pet? That was almost a term of endearment. Jazz wouldn’t mind being someone’s pet. He could be taught to heel, to fetch, to obey. And in reward, he would be loved and stroked and fed treats. Would Bluestreak do that? Would Bluestreak take care of him like that?

           The final blow landed, and Jazz’s helm thunked to the floor as he screamed into the decking. Every ounce of pain went into the cry and still it wasn’t enough to express how he felt right now.

           “Twenty-six,” Bluestreak said after Jazz’s wail had faded away into whimpers. “Very well done, pet.”

           Jazz’s aft suddenly flared in agony once more, and he choked on a protest. Bluestreak had said twenty-six. Only twenty-six! Why was he hitting him again…? But then Jazz realized it wasn’t the paddle. It was Bluestreak’s hand stroking over the shredded sensory hub masquerading as Jazz’s rear end.

           Despite the pain, Jazz’s spark leaped. Bluestreak was finally touching him!

           “So very hot. You must hurt quite a bit, pet,” Bluestreak purred, practically in his audial. Jazz struggled to lift his head, cracking open just one optic to see Bluestreak crouched at his side, gazing at him in approval. “But I’m so proud of you. Very, very proud.”

           Jazz stared at Bluestreak, the words barely comprehending. He closed his optics again and keened, his processor giving up. He hurt so much and he was still so confused and…

           … oh. Another hand. _Two_ hands, pulling on him, and tugging him down into a warm lap with arms that enfolded him and held him close.

           “Yes, dearest, there you go… I have you.” Jazz heard murmured against the top of his helm. “You are allowed to touch me back, Jazz.”

            The words were like a spark igniting a fire within him. He immediately threw his arms around Bluestreak’s waist and clutched at him. Bluestreak’s plating was warm to the touch and smooth, and Jazz had to fight not to dig his talons in and mar that perfect finish. He concentrated instead on soaking up the feel of Bluestreak’s energy field. Practically non-existent before, it now wrapped around him like a warm and comforting blanket.

            Each stroke of Bluestreak’s hand down his back felt like sheer bliss. Each murmured endearment were the sweetest sounds Jazz had ever heard. He ducked his head and burrowed in, never wanting to leave this sudden safe haven.  

            “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chanted and then cringed, hiding against Bluestreak in the hopes it would make him a smaller target. “Sir, sir, sir, oh no, I’m so sorry, I forgot to say it right, I’m sorry!”

            “You’re forgiven,” Bluestreak said gently. “Jazz, you’re forgiven. For that and before. I forgive you, pet.”

            Jazz shuddered and squirmed, trying to get even closer to Bluestreak. “… don’t deserve it… always bad… always mess up…”

            “Shh. Shhh. Don’t say such things. You lied to me. You took your punishment, and I believe that you’re sorry. That’s the end of it. Now come on, let’s get you to the berth… stand up…” Bluestreak urged, gently placing Jazz back on the floor. Despite the careful handling, the impact punched a pained gasp out of him.

            “Oh, my poor pet,” Bluestreak said mournfully, pushing himself to his feet and looking down at Jazz. “Can you stand?”

            Jazz tried. He honestly did. But he felt weak and useless and unable to do much but writhe on the floor at Bluestreak’s feet.

            “I’m sorry, sir. It hurts,” Jazz whimpered, fully prepared to crawl if that was what Bluestreak wanted. But instead, the other mech bent down and neatly scooped Jazz up. He reflexively clutched at Bluestreak’s shoulders, optics wide at the ease the other mech displayed in carrying him to the berth. It was such a short moment, but Jazz still mourned the loss of Bluestreak’s arms when he deposited Jazz on the bed.

            He was placed on his hip, and Bluestreak encouraged Jazz to straighten and roll over onto his belly. Each and every motion ached and by the time he was prone, he was whimpering again.

             He wasn’t quite sure why. He’d been in worse pain before, but he’d just grit his denta and make a joke to distract from it. Bluestreak though… it just didn’t seem right to hide what Jazz was feeling from him. It was just another lie, and Bluestreak had already been quite clear about how he felt about lying.

             Besides… Bluestreak already knew about the pain, considering he was the one who had inflicted it.

             “Look what you’ve done to yourself,” Bluestreak murmured, his fingers flirting along the edges of Jazz’s burning aft.

             Jazz couldn’t disagree. He had let Bluestreak do this to him, despite Bluestreak giving him several outs. Even though Bluestreak had been the one swinging the paddle, Jazz was the one who had allowed him to do so.

             “I’m going to put some repair gel on this,” Bluestreak announced. “It will probably sting, but that should fade quickly. It has some desensitizing agents in it.”

             “Yes, sir,” Jazz mumbled into a pillow. He grasped it tightly, fingers digging into the soft material. Behind him, he heard the sharp sound of a thumb flipping open a cap and then the brush of air currents before something cold was drizzled onto this plating.

             His gasp turned into a muffled howl as Bluestreak began spreading the gel across his armor. ‘Sting’ was an understatement. It felt like something was taking a sharp icicle to his body, and he shook with the effort of staying in place.

             “Good boy,” Bluestreak murmured. “You’re doing so well. I know that it hurts, but it will feel better soon. I’m almost done.”

             Jazz nodded desperately and bit at the pillow. He was being good. Bluestreak said so.

             An eternity later, Jazz heard the sound of the vial being closed. And Bluestreak had been right; the cold burn was starting to numb the angry fire, leveling things out to a dull throb. He was still terrified to move however.

             “There. All done,” Bluestreak announced.

             Jazz felt the berth shift under the other mech’s weight and then Bluestreak was settling down, between Jazz and the wall. His frame was warm and only inches away but Jazz kept still. He didn’t know if the earlier invitation to touch still stood.

             “Look at me, Pet,” Bluestreak whispered.

             Jazz slowly turned his head and cracked open his optics. Bluestreak was lying on his side, helm pillowed on an arm, and gazing at Jazz. The sniper’s sensory panels were held at an awkward angle between his back and the wall, and Jazz frowned at the sight. That couldn’t be comfortable.

            “What’s wrong, dearest?” Bluestreak inquired.

            “Your…” Jazz stopped and reset his vocalizer. All the screaming had not treated it well. “Your wings, sir… there’s not enough room. I should move.”

            He was starting to shift when Bluestreak’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Stay where you are. Thank you for your concern, but they’re my appendages and I know when they’re being stressed. I’m much more concerned about you. Tell me how you feel.”

            “… sore, sir,” Jazz replied immediately. Because wasn’t that the truth? It was better than before, but his frame ached in ways it hadn’t in a long time. Not since his last stint under Vortex’s talented hands.

            “That’s your body and expected. Tell me about in here,” Bluestreak instructed, gently touching Jazz’s forehelm.

            Jazz blinked at the other mech and considered the question. How did he feel? Exhausted, wrung out… but like Bluestreak had said, that was his frame. He thought about it for over a minute before hesitantly asking his own question.

           “Sir? Will you… will you leave?”

           The lines of Bluestreak’s face gentled. “No, Jazz. We should be able to have nearly a day together. I won’t leave you.”

           Some previously unrecognized coil of tension within Jazz unwound, and he finally and truly relaxed down into the berth coverings.

           “Then… I feel happy, sir,” Jazz said slowly. Then he thought about it some more. “No. That’s not… not the right word… Mm… content? Yeah. Content. That’s better.”

           Bluestreak smiled, and his hand trailed down Jazz’s cheek and cupped it. “And that makes it worth it.”

           Jazz’s forehelm furrowed in confusion. What was Bluestreak talking about? “I don’t understand.”

           “That’s ok. I’ll explain it better later,” Bluestreak said, stroking Jazz’s face. “For now, just concentrate on that feeling of being content.”

           That was it? Jazz _really_ didn’t understand, but the way his head felt now _was_ pretty nice. And Bluestreak was right there, continually petting him. Something he could definitely get used to.

           “Yes, sir,” Jazz sighed and closed his optics again. He was tired. Worn down and worn out. Not thinking for a little while would be a good change.

           “I’ll be right here. I’ll keep you safe,” Bluestreak murmured, his fingers light against Jazz’s jaw.

           Jazz had heard plenty of promises in his day. And in his berth. But Bluestreak’s words rang more true than any others he had heard. So he let go and floated in an endless sea of contentment.

 

~ End Chapter


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